Maybe I’m just tired. Or shot one too many steroid injections this week. Whatever. I oughta be happy for all of you insensitive pricks out there, glad for your sakes, you who claim to care, that you haven’t been through what I have, and forgive you for being so fucking clueless.
I’m not, though. I’m pissed off.
“You just gotta have a positive attitude. You choose to be that way. You choose to think that way. You’re too sensitive. You need to toughen up.”
Okay, if the worst thing that ever happened to me was having my brother steal my favorite “Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition”, or having fucked-up hair on Picture Day, and twenty years later I was still obsessing about it, then, yeah, I’d be needing your advice.
Not all of us are that lucky.
The worst thing that ever happened to me is shit I don’t even want to remember. And if you break your leg, am I gonna tell you, “Hey, man, why are you limping? That’s your choice, you know. You don’t HAVE to limp. You can just think positive, and choose not to.”
That gonna work for you, chump? No? Well, why not? It’s just a broken leg, right? It happened, and it was bad, but it’s in a cast now, and it’s healing, so what’s your problem?
Yeah….Well, keep this in mind, the next time you are too bored, too irritated, or too impatient to follow through on that “I care about you” bullshit: insecurity is a mental limp. It’s a reflex, a subconscious reaction, and although I can sometimes choose not to reveal it, it takes effort, just like hiding a limp. And I don’t always have the energy to devote to it, and sometimes I’m just too pissed off to care. After all, who am I hiding it for?
You.
Not me. You. ‘Cause I know damn well that you don’t want to deal with it, and I try not to make you. Most of the time. Because that’s the choice YOU made, right? To tell yourself it’s not your problem, that I’m just a pussy, and need to learn to “deal with it”. Your choice, to turn your back on me, and you blame your decision on me, too, so you don’t have to feel guilty about being a cold-hearted prick.
Well, you can shut me out. That’s your right, and I sure as hell don’t blame you. I irritate the shit outta me sometimes, too. But as for layering more guilt on me—sorry, but I’m done taking that crap.
You don’t wanna hear me, that’s fine. I get it. But keep your judgmental, meaningless fucking platitudes to yourself.
Go ahead and turn your back, but shut the fuck up.
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